"Why it's the boy! It's the boy who pulled me off the track! It's the boy!"
"Of course!" exclaimed Joe. Impulsively he held out his hand.
A shout arose as one of the Pittston players brought in the winning run, but Joe paid no heed. He was staring at old Pop Dutton.
The other player--the "has-been"--looked at Joe's extended hand a moment as if in doubt. Then he glanced over the field, and listened to the glad cries. He seemed to straighten up, and his nostrils widened as he sniffed in the odors of the crushed green grass. It was as though a broken-down horse had heard from afar the battle-riot in which he never again would take part.
Back came the blood-shot eyes to Joe's still extended hand.
"Do you--do you mean it?" faltered the old ball player.
"Mean it? Mean what?" asked Joe, in surprise.
"Are you going to shake hands with me--with a----"
He did not finish his obvious sentence.
"Why not?" asked Joe.
The other did not need to answer, for at that moment Gregory came up. He started at the sight of Dutton, and said sharply:
"How did you get in here? What are you doing here. Didn't I tell you to keep away?"
"I paid my way in--_Mister_ Gregory!" was the sarcastic answer. "I still have the price."
"Well, we don't care for your money. What are you doing here? The bleachers for yours!"
"He came--I think he came to see me," spoke Joe, softly, and he reached for the other's reluctant hand. "I have met him before."
"Oh," said Gregory, and there was a queer note in his voice. "I guess we've all met him before, and none of us are the better for it. You probably don't know him as well as the rest of us, Joe."
"He--he saved my life," faltered the unfortunate old ball player.
"In a way that was a pity," returned Gregory, coolly--cuttingly, Joe thought, "for you're no good to yourself, Dutton, nor to anyone else, as near as I can make out. I told you I didn't want you hanging around my grounds, and I don't. Now be off! If I find you here again I'll hand you over to the police!"
Joe expected an outburst from Dutton, but the man's spirit was evidently broken. For an instant--just for an instant--he straightened up and looked full at Gregory. Then he seemed to shrink in his clothes and turned to shuffle away.
"All--all right," he mumbled. "I'll keep away. But you've got one fine little pitcher in that boy, and I didn't want to see him lose his nerve and get discouraged--as I often did. That--that's why I spoke to him."
Poor Joe felt that he had rather made a mess of it in speaking to Dutton, but, he said afterward, he would have done the same thing over again.
"You needn't worry about Matson," said the manager, with a sneer.
"I'll look after Joe--I'll see that he doesn't lose his nerve--or get discouraged."
"I--I hope you do," said the old player, and then, with uncertain gait, he walked off as the victorious Pittston players swarmed in. The game was over.
CHAPTER XII
THE QUEER VALISE
"Matson, I hope you didn't misunderstand me," remarked the manager as he walked beside Joe to the dressing rooms. "I mean in regard to that Dutton. He's an intolerable nuisance, and I didn't want you to get mixed up with him. Perhaps I spoke stronger than I should, but I'm exasperated with him. I've tried--and so have lots of us--to get him back on the right road again, but I'm afraid he's hopeless."
"It's too bad!" burst out the young pitcher. "Yes, I thought you were a little severe with him."
"I have to be. I don't want him hanging around here. I haven't seen him for some time. He drifts all about--beating his way like a tramp, I guess, though he's better dressed now than in a long while. What's that he said about you saving his life?"
"Well, I suppose I did, in a way," and Joe told of the freight train episode. "But that happened a long distance from here," he added. "I was surprised to turn around and see him."
"Oh, Pop travels all over. You've probably heard about him. In his day there wasn't a better pitcher in any league. But he got careless--that, bad companions and dissipation spelled ruin for him. He's down and out now, and I'm sure he can never come back. He lives off what he can borrow or beg from those who used to be his friends. Steer clear of him--that's my advice."
Joe did not respond and after a moment Gregory went on with:
"And you mustn't mind, Joe, being taken out of to-day's game."
"Oh, I didn't--after the first."
"It was for your own good, as well as for the good of the team,"
proceeded the manager. "If I hadn't taken you out you might have gone to pieces, and the crowd would have said mean things that are hard to forget. And I want you to pitch for us to-morrow, Joe."
"You do!" cried the delighted young pitcher, all his bitterness forgotten now. "I thought maybe----"
He paused in confusion.
"Just because you got a little off to-day, did you imagine I was willing to give you your release?" asked Gregory, with a smile.
"Well--something like that," confessed Joe.
The manager laughed.
"Don't take it so seriously," he advised. "You've got lots to learn yet about professional baseball, and I want you to learn it right."
Joe felt a sense of gratitude, and when he reached the hotel that afternoon, he took a refreshing shower bath, attired himself in his "glad rags," and bought a ticket to the theatre.
Then, before supper, he sat down to write home, enclosing some of his salary to be put in a savings bank at Riverside. Joe also wrote a glowing account of the game, even though his part in it was rather negligible. He also wrote to-- But there! I shouldn't tell secrets that way. It's taking too much of an advantage over a fellow.
There was an air of elation about the hotel where the players lived, and on all sides were heard congratulations. The evening papers had big headlines with the victory of the home team displayed prominently.
Collin's picture was there, and how much Joe wished that his own was so displayed only he himself knew.
Clevefield played four games with Pittston, and they broke even--each side winning two. Joe was given another chance to pitch, and was mainly responsible for winning the second game for his team.
Joe was fast becoming accustomed to his new life. Of course there was always something different coming up--some new problem to be met. But he got in the way of solving them. It was different from his life at boarding school, and different from his terms at Yale. He missed the pleasant, youthful comradeship of both places, but he found, as he grew to know them better, some sterling men in his own team, and in those of the opposing clubs.
But with all that, at times, Joe felt rather lonesome. Of course the days were busy ones, either at practice or in play. But his nights were his own, and often he had no one with whom he cared to go out.